Stockholm Syndrome
by PeaceLoveSherlock
Summary: What if Sherlock hadn't joined the side of the angels? Sherlock, consultant criminal, kidnaps John in order to get back at the consultant detective- one James Moriarty. Johnlock in the end.
1. Introduction

_**This is basically just an AU plot bunny about what might have happened had Sherlock chosen not to side with the angels. I'm fairly new to the fandom and this is my first fic, so please review and tell me what you think!**_

_**And speaking of reviews, there's someone I need to thank for looking this fic over and staying up until two in the morning even when she had class in five hours and still had homework to do, just to read my fic. Thanks for agreeing to stick with me even if I paint a yellow smiley on my wall to use as target practice. You're brilliant ; )**_

Sherlock sneered from the top of a rooftop, his blonde locks falling just perfectly about his face as he watched the store below. He was watching as a black cab pulled up to the curb and two people stepped out. He was focused on the first of the men- a tall, lanky excuse for a man whom Sherlock had come to despise- Jim Moriarty.

He'd set this scene up for the detective, a test of sorts. Inside, he and his obedient lap dog John Watson were sniffing around for clues about the most recent victim of a string of "impossible" murders. He had not killed the girl, of course, he wasn't a killer. Merely a... sponsor, of sorts. Helping a poor, starving man find the money for a bit of food to eat. He should get an award, really. Sherlock smiled at that.

The hard truth, however, was he and Moriarty weren't so different. He could just as easily have joined the side of the angels, working cases with some army doctor fresh out of his first war, being at the beck and call of the police like some common _pet_. How boring. He liked being a criminal so much more, it was so vey much more _interesting_.

Bored now, he flew more than walked from rooftop to rooftop before coming to a stop at the house he was currently calling a home- a rather luxurious flat owned by a wealthy business man for use when he wasn't on business elsewhere in the world. With the man currently dealing stock in Thailand, Sherlock found it perfectly safe to put roots down here for a while. He hoped down off the roof onto the fire escape and through the open window into the flat, contemplating the problem named Jim Moriarty.

The detective was getting close to realizing Sherlock's existence- far too close for his liking. Soon, he knew it would be time to take action. He thought about all the ways he could get to Moriarty- he could kidnap a handful of people, play some mind games with him, see what he was made of, but Moriarty would probably just find it _fun_. No, he needed to strike where it would hurt him the most, the very heart of the consultant detective. He needed to ensure the detective would be too threatened to keep coming after him. In short, he needed to get to John Watson. He was sure John was the soft spot in the otherwise hardened exterior, having observed their relationship for quite some time now. The way they needn't talk at a crime scene, just exchanged looks that said exactly what they were thinking, the way they acted when no one else was around. If he had a weakness, it was John Watson. But how to get to him? Merely killing John wasn't enough, no, it would have to be something far worse. He would torture John, let Moriarty see John's pain then and let him get just close enough for him to think he would win, then kill John, letting him find only the dead body of the only friend he had.

Smiling suddenly as a plan formed in his head, Sherlock got up and grabbed his coat- he had some things he needed.


	2. Chapter 1

The ingredients needed to knock someone unconscious were nothing very damning, and Sherlock had no problem picking them up at his local corner store. It was simple to mix together a powder that, when injested, caused one to pass out quickly. All Sherlock had to do was slip it into something and convince John to injest it.

Luckily for Sherlock, John quite fancied his morning coffee, something he hadn't missed since he moved in with Moriarty to their flat on Floral Street. All he'd need was to get it into his coffee and John would practically walk himself into the trunk of Sherlock's car. The anticipation of starting his new project kept Sherlock up in the night and by morning, he was practically itching to get out of the flat. He carefully parked his car just down the road, not a five minute walk from John's flat, and entered the cafe he frequented every morning. He sat and opened a newspaper, waiting for John to arrive. Soon enough John was walking through the door, stopping only to have a quick chat with a man outside. Sherlock approached the counter just before he did.

"I'll have a large coffee, black, with two sugars." Sherlock demanded rather than requested, then stepped to the side so John could order. He was close enough now that he could smell John's aftershave, cologne, and some other smoky scent, a mix that together created a scent unique enough he was sure he could pick it out of any crowd. He wondered if Moriarty could identify John's body by it.

"Can I have a large black coffee Mrs. Turner?" John was so different, so... normal, and yet unique. He smiled as he _asked_ for a beverage he was_ paying _for. Who does that, really?

"Of course dear, of course. On the house, your money's no good here John," The lady insisted, and John smiled even wider.

"You're a saint, Mrs. Turner, an honest to God saint."

There was silence at the front as she put on a pot large enough for both orders and settled herself about some other business while it was brewing. Neither John nor Sherlock spoke as they both watched Mrs. Turner go about her business until finally the long ding told them their coffee was done. She poured their cups, adding two sugars to one, then handed them the cups with smiles. Before she even spoke, Sherlock had subtly grabbed the wrong one and turned to go out the door, so Mrs. Turner spoke more to John than him.

"Thank you boys, and have a wonderful day at work. And John, please tell Jim that while I appreciate his thought process, it's really not condusive of sleep for gunshots to be going off in the next flat at 2 in the morning," Mrs. Hudson said as she smiled at him. Sherlock slipped a small, white powder into the coffee in his hand and mixed it ever so subtly.

"Oi, I think I might have grabbed your coffee by mistake," John said, pulling a face as he sipped the drink. Sherlock turned, pretending to sip from his own then making a similar grimace.

"I believe you are correct," Sherlock said as they switched drinks. He watched with satisfaction as John sipped the coffee and smiled.

"That's much better. Nothing but pure coffee for me, thanks anyways," John laughed, and Sherlock laughed with him.

"Yeah, I suppose I simply never got used to the taste," he said as they walked out together. "Besides, I find the sugar helps stimulate me, helps me think more clearly, if you know what I mean."

"I think I do. My flatmate Jim says the same thing all the time," he said as they walked along, then laughed as he commented "Although, he needs a lot more stimulation, apparently. I swear he dumps half a pound in. It's more sugar than coffee, honestly."

"I'm John, by the way. John Watson." He held out a hand to Sherlock and he took it.

"Gregory Baker. Pleased to meet you," he greeted. He could tell John was slowly feeling the effects of the drug. His normally graceful movements now seemed labored, and he was much more languid in his speech.

"Are you alright John, you're looking a bit pale? Perhaps you should sit down for a second." Sherlock opened the door to the car he'd parked here earlier and helped John inside. John mumbled something that might have been an agreement or maybe a protest, but it didn't matter as Sherlock shut the door and went around to the driver's side. By the time he'd gotten in the car, John was out cold.

They drove about half an hour to the abandoned office building Sherlock sometimes used as a storage facility, since it was in the middle of various other unused buildings and he wouldn't be noticed coming in and out. Inside, there was a room furnished only with a chair, handcuffs attached to either arm and the two front legs. Sherlock carried John to the chair and carefully placed him down, attatching the handcuffs to the appropriate limbs and then took off the backpack he had on. He went about setting the stage for when John eventually awakened.

Several hours later, John stirred. The first thing he noticed was the pounding in his head, causing him to squeeze his eyes further shut in protest. He realized his arms and back were both painfully stiff from the position he'd remained in far too long and he tried to stretch, and found he was not able to move his arms more than a few inches up before being stopped by the jerk of a set of handcuffs. Carefully, he opened his eyes. If he had looked around he would have realized it was dark outside the window beside him, meaning he had been unconscious at least the entire day and possibly more than one. He might have seen the mirror to the right of him, and if he had really examined it, he might have deduced it was a two-way mirror, with his captor standing on the other side watching him. John didn't look around, however, because he could not take his eyes off the wall in front of him.

Every inch of it was covered by pictures of dead people, mostly soldiers. Some were victims of cases he had worked on with Moriarty, others civilian casualities from Afghanistan. Some were badly deformed from injuries, others merely looked to be sleeping, about to arise momentarily. Their ages ranged from an elderly woman well into her eighties to a small baby, still clutched in its dead mother's arms. A child of no more than six or seven stared blankly back at him with dull blue eyes that should have shined with joy, and this picture hurt perhaps more than the others because he remembered the child so well, had been so very responsible for the boy's death.

"Padshah," he murmured, transfixed. Padshah had been a bright eyed, playful boy well known to the troops for bringing them his father's trade goods from the nearby town. He would play basketball with the troops and knew all of them by name. While Padshah was speaking with him one day, they had received word that a group of enemy soldiers were quickly approaching. Padshah had tried to run but John had stopped him, had pulled him to the side of the road and behind a rock.

"No, stay here. It's too dangerous to run. Stay here and hide and I'll protect you," John had told him. When the bomb was thrown, John seen Padshah's eyes widen and he tried to run towards the boy, jump in front of the bomb, but he was simply too far away. Padshah died knowing John had lied to him. If John had just let him leave...

"Recognize them, John? Maybe just a few. After all, there are so many, how could you possibly remember them _all_?" A voice asked from an intercom John hadn't noticed.

"How... what... who are you?" John sputtered, barely able to speak, though whether it was his dry throat or his shock that prevented intelligible speech, John couldn't be sure.

"Who am I, John? I think you might want to take another look at these pictures and ask yourself 'who are you?' You were a doctor John, you were supposed to help these people. Instead, you let them die. Are you a healer John, or an angel of death?" John looked frantically around as he tried to find something to focus on, struggling against his bonds. He found a camera on the right hand side of the room and he directed his anger at it.

"Who are you?! What do you want from me? What is all this?!" Sherlock chuckled.

"You're not asking the right questions, doctor. The question you should be asking is _'Are you going to kill me_?' And the answer, my dear Watson, is _almost certainly_."


	3. Chapter 2

_**I'm sorry it's been a few days since my last update, my internet has been on the fritz and I wasn't able to upload. To make up for it, I have two updates for you =D**_

_**Thanks to everyone who reviewed, you guys are awesome!**_

It was the second morning after John had left for work and still, he had not returned to the flat, nor had he reported for work at the surgery the previous day. Jim had, at first, believed John to have had a run in with an old girlfriend, but now he was worried it was something far more sinister. Besides that, they were out of tea, and Moriarty had no idea what his favorite flavour was called. He needed his blogger with him.

So, he set out to track him down. He talked first with Lestrade, who informed him he had last seen John with Jim himself, when they were investigating the suicide. Anderson hadn't seen him either. Sally was rather annoyed that he "didn't show up the other day," but Moriarty had the distinct feeling she wasn't talking about work. Finally, he asked Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, well let's think. I suppose I haven't seen him since he ordered that coffee the other morning with... Gregory, I think he said his name was," she told him.

"Gregory?" he asked. "Who's Gregory?"

"I'm sure I don't know. I've never seen him here before. Struck up a bit of friendly conversation with John and left." Never once did she stop working as she recalled that day.

"What were they talking about?"

"Goodness me Jim, you worry too much. John would never cheat on you," she assured him. "That boy is quite fond of you."

"Mrs. Hudson, I've told you multiple times we are not a couple. Now, what were they talking about?" He did not want to have to repeat the question and Mrs. Hudson stopped for just a second to think.

"Sugar, I think. John grabbed the wrong coffee by mistake and Greg had his with two sugars, so they were talking about that," she recalled, then smiled and laughed a bit. "Of course I could be wrong, my mind is not what it used to be Jim. Now please, I've got customers." Jim was already halfway out the door though, uninterested in anything else she had to say. He had a theory on what happened to John.

Meanwhile, John had been staring at the same pair of eyes on the wall since he awoke that first morning. He had been uncuffed after he fell asleep the first night, but hadn't moved from his spot in the chair often, simply driving himself mad staring at the deaths he was responsible for. He'd woken up every morning to two trays lined in front of the door. Always toast and jam with coffee for a breakfast, and a stack of potato crisps and dip with a jug of ice water. Last night, he'd also received a tray of fish and chips and more water for dinner. He'd neither seen nor heard from anybody, however, since the first time he woke up.

John wondered if he were eating poisoned food. His coffee had been drugged, he was certain, and now perhaps he was slowly being drugged, doomed to become more and more ill until finally his body couldn't take anymore and shut down. John wondered if he should care. The voice had, after all, assured him he would not survive this encounter, but he couldn't help but find some comfort in that. If he were going to die regardless, he might as well die well fed.

He'd long since noticed the window, giving him the perfect taste of just how isolated he was. He'd also noticed the mirror. The chair, unfortunately, was bolted to the ground of John would have thrown it at the mirror in hopes that he might break through. He'd tried to break the door down and succeeded only in injuring his shoulder.

"Jim sent you a text, John. He wants to know 'R' the letter, not the word, 'U' again, the letter 'OK'. Is he really just realizing you're missing now? Perhaps he's not as observant as he appears." There was a long silence and John was under the impression whoever the voice was had left before it continued. "Well John. R U Ok?"

John was filled with a sense of fury at his situation. He was going to die in this 10x10 steel box of a room and there wasn't anything he could do about it but sit around and listen to his kidnapper mock him. Furious, he ran at the window and punched it with all his might, then cursed as he succeeded in shattering it, nearly falling through the window and down the twelve stories to his death.

That night, he received a roll of cloth bandages, antiseptic, and pain reliever along with a tray of Chinese take out, his exact order. Whoever this man was, he knew John well. He hadn't served him one thing he did not love tremendously. And the pain reliever showed he may be cruel, but there might be more to him than that after all.

The next day, he received no breakfast, but the window had been boarded up and there was the man behind the voice himself. He knew immediately because he recognized him from the cafe, but struggled to remember the name he'd given him. Behind the man, he noticed, the pictures on the wall had disappeared.

"Greg?" The man smiled, his gray-blue eyes lit with amusement.

"That's not my real name, you know. Just one of the many I go by as of late. You may feel free to call me it however, since I will not be giving you my real name. I just figured since you're going to die soon anyways, we might as well be honest with each other," here, the man gave John a hard stare down. "Are you prepared to be honest with me, John?"

"Honesty would be telling me your real name," John told him, taking into account every detail he could remember about the man for when Moriarty eventually found him. The man wasn't hard to remember- around six feet tall, with a dark, perfectly curled head of hair framing the sharp features of his face, the man was... well, _gorgeous_.

"Alright John, I'll give you an honest answer to one question, if you give me an honest answer to mine. Lie, and I'll do the same. Agreed?" Sherlock asked. John contemplated this, then finally nodded.

"I suppose so," John told him.

"Excellent. Easy questions first John, nothing difficult. When are you planning on re-enlisting?"

"What?" John asked, bewelidered. "How did you know?"

"I've observed you, John, you're just dying for a good fight. The way Moriarty keeps you from all but the most mundane crimes if he can help it, it's far too boring to keep your self-destructive adrenaline kick at bay, and that was your first question by the way, so I get another. Now answer, when did you plan to re-enlist?"

"I... after we're through with with the case we're on, I was planning on putting my two weeks notice in. And what do you mean, that was my first question?"

"You're asking out of turn again John, you're quickly running out of questions. But to answer your second question- every question you ask counts John, so choose carefully. Now- how long have you lived with Moriarty?"

"Wh-" John was about to ask what Jim had to do with this, but then thought better of it. He hadn't had one real question yet and he didn't want to waste another. "Not long."

"Not an answer John."

"A few months. Maybe four."

"I see. And what do you think of your flatmate?"

"What do I think of him? No wait, don't answer, that's not my question! Well, I-" John wasn't sure how to answer. "he's brilliant, of course. A bit blunt at times, and quite aggravating most of the time, but underneath it all, he's actually a great man."

"Wrong. Underneath it all he is a budding psychopath, there's nothing great about him. He cares about_ nothing _and no one but himself and the only thing stopping him from being exactly like me only much, much worse is that helping the ordinary people gives him the sense that he is God, without him they would be nothing, lost as a flock of sheep without a herder, and that gives him a bigger hard on than the most beautiful woman in the world could ever _dream_ of giving him. He'll never care for anyone, and certainly not y-" Sherlock realized his mistake. He had kidnapped John to get back at Moriarty, but it was clear Moriarty did not truly care about John. Sherlock had overlooked the facts and gone for the obvious. Killing John would not hurt Moriarty one bit, and Sherlock was wasting his time. Furious, he stood up quickly and left, leaving John alone.

John received no dinner, either.


	4. Chapter 3

John didn't know much about Gregory Baker or whoever his captor may be, but based on what he knew about the man, he'd guess he was not that different from Jim. And if they were anything alike, John could guess (deduce, he could hear Jim correct him) that Greg had forgotten about feeding him, probably forgetting about eating himself. He'd certainly seemed preoccupied as he hurried out of John's... room?

But when he received no breakfast the next morning, John began to worry. He wondered if this was the beginning of his end.

"So that's it, Greg? Or whatever your name may be. I have nothing better to call you. You're just going to starve me to death? Because if not, I wouldn't say no to a bit of toast and jam," John spoke to the camera since he had nothing else to direct his comments to. Despite himself, John couldn't stop the natural curiousity he felt nagging at him. What had concerned the man so much he'd left in such a hurry? Was he going to hurt Jim? And, still, why had he taken John in the first place?

John guessed it was around the time he had previously received dinner when his captor came back into the room, holding a large tray of steak, rice, and potatoes and a jug of ice water with a cup to pour it into.

"I apologize, John. I forgot that some people are accustomed to eating... much more often than I am. Forgive me also for my exit yesterday, I simply realized an oversight." Sherlock handed John the tray, sighed, and slid down the wall beside John. He hesitated before continuing his apology. This was by far the hardest apology he'd had to give in a long, long time. "I also apologize for my outburst last night. I know Jim means a lot to you, and I should have exercised more self control."

"I think I'm going to kill you tomorrow," he told John, continuing on. He figured there was no use sugar coating the fact, and he might as well be honest with him about it.

"You seem... uneasy with that," John mentioned, albeit a little hopefully. "I mean, it's just that one of the first things you told me was that you were probably going to kill me, so it's not as though this is unexpected for either of us." John couldn't believe how... normal, this sounded. This was anything but a normal conversation. Sherlock nodded.

"No, no John, I never actually intended on killing you. Don't mistake me John, I have no qualms killing you, or killing in general even. It's just I've never actually done it, and my plan for you had always been to merely drive you insane beyond the point of being able to live a normal life. Tomorrow, however, I will be a killer. I... don't know how I feel about that," Sherlock admitted.

"You haven't killed before?" John asked curiously.

"No. So far, the most notable crime I can claim responsibility for is breaking into a few Duke's summer homes a year or so back. Got quite a bit of money out of it, too."

"I remember reading the papers about it, that was you?" Sherlock beamed.

"Yes, it was rather simple, too. Much less complicated than you'd think," he told John. There was silence for a few moments, and then John broke it.

"If you don't mind me asking... how are you going to do it?"

"Kill you?" Sherlock asked. John nodded.

"I'm not sure. It won't be a gun or a knife- either would be too messy, and far too easy to trace. I considered cyanide, but I feel it's too drawn out a death. I'd prefer something quick, straight to the point. That's more my style. Perhaps I'll have you jump off the roof. It won't hurt- the building is quite high and you'll be dead immediately on impact. Then whoever finds you will be hard pressed not to deem it suicide," Sherlock told him.

"Jumping," John considered this. He'd never been a man afraid of heights, but jumping to his death seemed so... he couldn't picture it.

"What's your name? I mean, if I'm going to die tomorrow anyways, does it matter if I know your name or not?" Sherlock looked at John and burst out laughing.

"That still bothers you?" he asked, shaking his head. "You're worried about the wrong things, John. For a man faced with the prospect of death, you don't seem particularly worried."

"I suppose there's not much to do about it. I've already tried escaping and all it got me was a bloodied hand. If I'm going to die, there's no use in dwelling on it," he shrugged. Sherlock nodded.

"That's a very intelligent way of thinking, John Watson. Very intelligent indeed." Sherlock sat silently for the next three hours, during which time John ate his dinner, studied his captor a bit, then went to the remnants of the window. Through the boards, he could just make out the sunset over the abandoned buildings- the last he might ever see. He'd always imagined he'd die an early death, but he would have thought it would be in the middle of the Afghan desert, not on the concrete pavement outside a warehouse, jumping on the orders of a fellow Brit.

He fell asleep before Sherlock came out of his reverie. He watched the man before him, sleeping now. He had thought John to be just another ordinary person, but now he found John was not who he appeared to be. The world saw in John a brave, courageous army veteran who risked his life to save others. A man of good looks but average intelligence, which many might say he made up for with the large amount of heart he put into everything he did.

Sherlock didn't just_ see_ him though, he _observed_. And what he observed, Sherlock felt was worth studying. Perhaps, just perhaps, it would be worth keeping John around a while longer.

Sherlock got up and had reached the door, meaning to leave, when he caught side of the window on the wall to his left. After a little deliberation, Sherlock left and returned with a marker.

When John awoke, he was greeted with large, black writing on the window in front of him.

_'Sherlock Holmes'_


	5. Chapter 4

_**So I signed into my e-mail at school and seen all the followers I've gotten overnight! You guys are awesome =)**_

_**I had a question on Sherlock's blonde hair- he's wanted for crimes in other places and I just imagined he'd have to change his appearance constantly, so I didn't imagine he would look exactly the same as Sherlock. Originally I was going to have him have a shorter haircut as well, but I couldn't bear to picture him without curls. The blonde was hard enough! =P**_

_**Thanks to all my reviewers and followers out there, you guys rock =D**_

Sherlock, as John now knew his captor was called, came in shortly before the sun came up. He did not make himself comfortable, which suggested to John he wasn't staying very long. It was almost sad, in a way. This could be the last day he would see, and he would spend it alone.

"What would you like for breakfast?" Sherlock asked. "I don't yet know what time I'd like to kill you, so we should assume any item of food you eat could be your last. With that in mind, I supposed you might like a say in what your breakfast was, at least for today."

John could think of nothing he wanted more than a few pieces of toast and marmalade with a tall, black coffee however, and so Sherlock prepared the meal to the best of his cooking ability. Toast, he could make.

He still wasn't sold on killing John. He still wasn't sold on keeping him alive. Logically, he knew that the best way to avoid prosecution was if John died. John had seen him, could recognize him now. He could always threaten John, force him to agree not to press charges, but he could never trust that. No, there was no way John could make it out of this building alive.

But who said he had to die _today_? The irrational side of his brain, though he knew most everything about John already, said he wanted to get to know John, which wasn't the same as merely deducing him. He wanted to spend time with the man. This was yet another reason the logical side of his brain wanted John dead and done with; there were people who wanted him dead, others who would like to lock him up and leave him to rot in a cell somewhere. He couldn't afford to be distracted by anything right now.

Sherlock was sure he was attracted to John, a complication he hadn't anticipated. Sherlock had never been interested in a man before- in fact, he hadn't been interested in anyone before John. He'd had sex before, yes, but never out of an attraction to the women he'd been with- only out of a mutual need even he occasionally needed to fill. He had no set plan in mind to deal with this sudden attraction. Instead, he served the bread plain with the orange marmalade on the side, so that John could decide how much or how little he wanted on his toast, served with a tall, black coffee, then took a seat outside the room, watching him eat through the two-way mirror.

About once every ten minutes, Sherlock made up his mind to kill John. He would get up off the floor and head to John's door, but then he would notice John hadn't yet finished his toast, or that John was still working on his coffee, or that John seemed rather deep in thought and it would be rude to disturb him now, and so Sherlock would turn around and put an increasingly large amount of space between him and the door, eventually ending with Sherlock escaping to the roof for a moment to clear his head. He could do this, he _had_ to do this. Besides, it wasn't as though he wasn't responsible for plenty of deaths. Technically, he wasn't going to kill John, either. He was simply going to make him jump.

Sherlock sat on the edge of the roof he wasn't sure he wanted his hostage to jump off of. The sun was shining, as lovely a morning as the one he'd taken John on. Had he known what he realized now, Sherlock couldn't say for certain if he would have taken John or not. Logically, Sherlock knew that he had always known Moriarty was a psychopath, and clearly not capable of caring for John in a manner that was necessary for kidnapping John to mean anything. So why had he taken him? Had this attraction been there the whole time? The though disturbed him so much that Sherlock stayed on the rooftop until it started to become chilly and the sun had started to set. He left the rooftop and returned to the rest of the warehouse.

"Evidently, I am not going to kill you today and, in all honesty, tomorrow doesn't look promising either. In fact, it may be a while before I decide to kill you, so you might as well get used to being here, I suppose." Sherlock told him and then left, forgetting entirely about dinner. Somehow though, John had forgotten about it too.

When John awoke, he expected to find breakfast waiting for him. Instead, he found Molly and Harriet in the room in front of him, visible only through the window John hadn't really payed attention to before. Both were handcuffed in similar ways as he had been, each arm and leg individually shackled, but they were also gagged with some sort of cloth. A man stood in the room with a gun pointed to either one's head.

"Good morning, John. Sleep well?" Sherlock's voice came across the intercom. "I'm afraid Molly and Harriet didn't have such a great time. They were tossing and turning all night, poor things."

"What are you doing with them Sherlock? Let them go!" John had never felt such fear before. He rushed toward the window and started to bang on it, which seemed only to alarm the girls further. John realized they couldn't see him though he could see them.

"They can't see or hear you John. It might as well just be you and I, alone. To answer your question John, they are part of an... experiment of mine. Letting them go, therefore, would be counterproductive. You understand, of course, don't you John?" Sherlock said. "Do you want to know what the experiment is?"

John watched the women as he nodded, knowing Sherlock could see him on the camera.

"It's a study on decision making, John. I'm curious to know- giving the choice of only one, which woman would you prefer lived? Logic would say your sister, whom you've known your entire life. But you're not so fond of your sister as of late, are you John? You've been fighting recently, haven't you?"

"But then there's Molly, the sentimental choice. Sweet, innocent Molly. She's never done anything to anyone, and though you've just met her, you care for her more already than you do your sister, don't you John? Your relationship is certainly better, that's for certain. So who will it be, John? Shall I have Molly killed? Or should it be Harry? Think carefully now, there's no going back."

John couldn't believe what was happening. It couldn't be happening. "Me, I choose me. Please, let me take their place!" John was frantic- he couldn't let either of the girls be harmed.

"You're not part of the experiment, John. I already know you're foolish, readily putting yourself on the line to save others. What I want to know are your priorities, your way of thinking. Do you put love, or family first? Passion, or time-tested loyalty? Take your time John, there's no rush."

John sat there, staring at the two women, for longer than he had ever started at anything before in his life. Seconds, minutes, hours, days might have passed as his eyes passed from each of them to the other and back again over, and over, and over.

"I can't decide," John said when he'd finally made a decision. He knew the decision all along, really, but he couldn't bring his heart to admit it. He was tearing now, and Sherlock's chuckle came across the intercom loud and clear as day.

"You've already made a chouce John, just say a name. Who shall I kill?" he asked. "Harry, or Molly?"

"It's not a choice Sherlock, I didn't CHOOSE this! God damn it, just kill me and get it over with, please!" John was actively crying now, brought to the floor with his sobs.

"I'll give you ten seconds John, and then I'm going to order them both killed. Neither will survive because of yourselfishness. Just tell me who to kill, Molly, or Harry. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Tw-"

"Save Harry," it was a mere whisper, John himself could barely hear it.

"What was that?" Sherlock asked. "I couldn't quite hear you."

"Save Harry." John said louder. "I want Harry."

"Kill Molly? Are you sure?" Sherlock asked, and John winced. Though they were the same statement 'Kill Molly' seemed so much crueler than 'Save Harry'. He didn't want to think about it in terms of killing her. "She's an innocent in all this, never harmed you. Are you sure that's what you want?" John didn't answer, only stared ahead through the window at the girl John had come to feel so much for, then again to his sister. Harry, who he hadn't talked to in months. Was he sure?

Suddenly, the room in front of him went dark and the shot that rang out was so loud, John could hear it from through the soundproofing in the walls. The door opened a moment later and a horrified Molly walked into the room. John's eyes widened.

"Harry," he whispered, too stunned to say anything else.

"John?" Molly asked, disbelieving. "John, is that you? Wh- what is this place? Who was that girl?"

"That was my sister," he whispered, still stunned beyond comprehension, staring at the still blackened window in front of him, where his sister had been only moments before. He could still see the fear on her face. Harry was... dead?

"You chose me over your own sister?" Molly was stunned as she half stumbled onto the floor beside him. John said nothing, just wrapped his arms around her and sobbed.


	6. Chapter 5

_**Alright, hopefully none of you hate me for that last chapter! **_

_**I can't believe how many followers I'm getting- you guys are awesome =D**_

At some point, John and Molly passed out from pure exhaustion, wrapped in each others arms. John had rather fitful nightmares involving the army, Harry, and Molly. He didn't blame Molly for the death of his sister, of course; he couldn't begrudge her the gift of life. John knew who was to blame.

When he woke the next morning, Molly was gone, sending John into quite the panic. He got up from the corner he'd been sleeping in and tried desperately to see through the window in front of him, then tried to check through the mirror he now suspected was another two-way mirror. Sherlock waltzed in, smiling in an obviously satisfied manner. John had never felt like punching someone more.

"Not to worry John, she's returned home safely. She never saw anyone's face, and the amount of drugs she was given to and from here means there's no risk of her remembering much about being here. Her memories might even be so vague she isn't sure she was ever really here at all, but rather dreamed it all," Sherlock explained. "She was absolutely no threat to me."

"I should strangle you, right now. I really should," his voice was low, but hard, like the beginnings of a much larger growl from a threatened dog.

"Sentiment, John, is a very fickle thing. Molly deserved to live, she'd done nothing wrong. Why, then, choose to save your alcoholic sister? A woman who time and time again has proven she'll do you nothing but harm?" Sherlock asked. From anyone else, the statement would have sounded accusatory, but John had a feeling Sherlock was genuinely confused. That knowledge, however, wasn't enough for him not to explode at the man.

"She was my SISTER Sherlock, my fucking SISTER. I loved her. Molly's wonderful, but she's not family, and family comes first. You protect the people you care about despite the times they hurt you because no matter what, no one will love you like they do," John said. "I'd do anything to have my sister back. I guess you'll never understand that though, because no one could ever love you."

Sherlock tensed unexpectedly, and John almost felt sorry he'd said that. Sherlock did nothing for a moment, didn't even breathe, then swiftly turned and was halfway through the door before he stopped. "I'm not a monster, you know, I understand attachment at least, if not sentiment. I also understand the value of a human life, and that it means more than any experiment conducted purely for curiosity's sake."

At first, John was confused as to what Sherlock had meant. An hour later, Harry was carted through the door by a man in a black ski mask.

Harry was soon gone just as Molly had been, and John wasn't sure what to make of the fact Sherlock had made him think she was dead in the first place. He supposed, in his own way, Sherlock was trying to make the point that Molly was the one he should have saved. Perhaps also alluding to the fact he should have been able to save those countless faces he'd plastered on the wall.

Sherlock left the bread and jam early that morning and went into London for supplies. He spent much of the day removing the windows from the warehouse and replacing them with hardier, bullet proof ones. He reinforced the doors to the stairwells that could take one to a stairwell and therefore, out of the building, adding strong locks to them. When he was done, the entire floor was absolutely escape proof. Sherlock unlocked the door to John's room and entered.

"I've decided, if I'm not going to kill you anytime soon, you might as well be allowed a certain amount of freedom. You can wander around the floor as much as you'd like. I'll get you a mattress perhaps, I haven't decided. But I did bring you a blanket and a pillow. I left them in the hall for you." After he finished his piece, Sherlock turned and left for the rooftop, being certain to bolt the lock behind him.

John was very nervous- he wasn't sure this wasn't some trick to get him to believe he was safe, and then kill him anyways. Still, he supposed it didn't matter much either way. If he were going to die now or later, what was the difference? And having not slept with anything but a shackled chair for so long, a pillow and blanket sounded like heaven right now.

The "hall" as Sherlock had referred to it, was a large, open room that he presumed extended the length of the entire building. Sherlock had never replaced the broken window in his room and John wondered what made him so certain he wouldn't pull a similar stunt and just jump. On the floor against the wall closest to him was the promised blanket and pillow. He grabbed them, turned to take them into the room, and realized that, as he'd suspected, the mirror on the wall next to him was actually a window through which Sherlock might have been watching him the entire time. Not sure how he felt about that, he arranged the blanket on the floor.

Things continued on much as they had before, but with almost the feel of two old friends instead of hostage and captor. John found he actively looked forward to the often brief encounters he had with Sherlock, and learned a lot about him. Sherlock readily admitted he was not the hardened criminal many of his acquaintances were, but nor was he a "good man." He robbed houses for fun rather than profit, choosing rich homes simply because they were often more of a challenge. Like Moriarty, he was often bored with everyday life and was constantly searching for ways to keep himself occupied, which John expected might have been at least part of the motivation behind his kidnapping. John soon came to the same conclusion Sherlock himself had- in another life, Sherlock and Moriarty's roles might have been reversed, with Sherlock solving impossible crimes and Moriarty commiting crimes for the fun of it.

At some point, John wasn't sure when, he fell in love with Sherlock. He recalled learning in Bart's about the so called "Stockholm Syndrome", a condition in which hostages and kidnap victims start to feel affection towards their kidnapper. Perhaps that was what this was. Sherlock was, after all, the only person he'd seen now for well over a month (with the exception of the Harry and Molly incident, which he still hadn't quite forgiven). There had been no more talk of killing John, and eventually Sherlock unlocked all the but the exit doors, leaving John free to roam the rather large building as he pleased. Sherlock rarely left the building, John realized, but instead hid away on the rooftop when he needed to be alone, which was often.

Slowly, Sherlock started turning the warehouse into a sort of home. John moved into another room on a different floor that didn't have a chair bolted to the middle of it, and which didn't have a two way mirror. Sherlock, he found, didn't mind. One day, he woke up to find Sherlock had bought him a fridge and a microwave with a note that said_ 'Cook your own meals -SH' _Much later, he would have a dresser filled with clothes John would later, disturbingly, realize were his own, taken from his flat back on Baker street. Later, he woke up to find there was a stove where there hadn't been the day before.

One day, he found Sherlock had forgotten or perhaps simply decided against locking the door to the roof behind him, giving John access to Sherlock's hideaway. John thought about going up, but out of a strange respect for the man who'd drugged his coffee and handcuffed him in a room full of his nightmares, John didn't. He'd been informed before every other door had been unlocked, so he was certain this was just an oversight, or maybe a test. Either way, he turned and walked back towards his room.

"You didn't come up to the roof." Sherlock said later, when the sun had already set and John had started to settle for bed. John looked up to see him standing there, the blank stare he wore so often when he was trying to observe without giving anything away himself. John shrugged.

"I didn't realize I could," he said.

"The door was unlocked."

"How would I know that?"

"Because you tried the door." It was pointless to lie- somehow, Sherlock always knew.

"You never told me I was allowed to go up. So I didn't," he practically mumbled, shrugging. The admission sounded so... subservient when said aloud. But Sherlock didn't comment or mocked him, he merely nodded as though he'd known this answer all along.

The next day, the lock on all the doors was gone- including, John was shocked to realize, the front door. John could leave, he was free. For a second his heart leaped and he put his hand on the door.

Something stopped him. When asked, John would later swear he thought Sherlock was setting a trap up for him, some sort of impossible test like what happened with Molly and Harry. To be honest though, John sort of enjoyed being with Sherlock. Call it love, Stockholm Syndrome, his "adrenaline kick" or maybe a combination of all three, but John had come to appreciate the way Sherlock kept him on his toes. He never did anything expected and yet never seemed out of character, just revealing another layer of the vast network that was Sherlock's mind. He enjoyed watching Sherlock think long and hard about the 240 types of tobacco (243, John) and the differences between sentiment and attachment.

He called himself a criminal mastermind, but he truly believed Sherlock wasn't a bad person. He was a far better person than Moriarty was, at least. He had morals, and on occasion, he even thought about other people. When he could remember to, that was. And he had never been able to kill anyone personally, John reminded himself.

It was a while before John noticed the cocaine habit. Sherlock had never done cocaine in front of him, but he left his bag lying around the warehouse and once it had been open, and the cocaine easily visible. John was saddened by this, but he understood why Sherlock was attracted to the drugs. With a mind like his, the ability to get out of his own head must be one he appreciates highly.

So, John subtly tried to discourage the habit. He tagged around Sherlock more often, since he realized Sherlock for some reason wouldn't do drugs in front of him, and he often moved the bag so that Sherlock had trouble finding it. To someone with a mind unlike Sherlocks, they might not have noticed, but Sherlock did, and knew just why John was acting this way.

"I won't give up cocaine for you," Sherlock finally told him one day. knowing what he was thinking about. It was a strange phrase, the first time either had admitted they'd do anything for the other. But Sherlock had, for all intents and purposes, given up the life of crime he'd enjoyed, stopped living as a transient, and settled down in the warehouse with John. In return, John had put his trust into Sherlock, however foolish it may have seemed, and done nothing to betray his trust. Though John understood now the doors were unlocked so that John could leave if he wanted, John gave up his "freedom" to be with Sherlock. Still, neither had admitted previously that they'd done anything out of the ordinary. John still played the victim, Sherlock the criminal.

"I won't leave my life behind for you," John shot back.

"I'll never be a 'good man'." Oh, how he wished he knew how to be one though, if only to deserve John.

"I'll never accept your lifestyle," John admitted truthfully.

"I'll never really love you." Sociopathy prevented such strong emotions. This was probably as attached to anyone as he'd ever really become.

"I'm not actually gay," John shot at him.

"Yes you are."

"Yes, I am," John conceded sheepishly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Shut up and kiss me."

So that's what John did.


End file.
